


Kemonomimi Dreams

by Catharticism



Category: Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice (Video Game)
Genre: Chinese Translation Available | 有中文翻译, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, Gen, Purification Ending, Reincarnation, Self-Mutilation, Sorry to all Buddhists for butchering your religion, no beta we die like men, very light Buddhism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-03-05 21:46:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18837391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catharticism/pseuds/Catharticism
Summary: Wolf used to have wolf ears.That's it, that's the fic.





	Kemonomimi Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this fic to literally every single fucking fanartist who draws wolf as a doggo, a wolf, or with wolf ears and tail. I see y’all, I love y’all, I appreciate y’all.
> 
> The most lovely [IphigeniaC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IphigeniaC/pseuds/IphigeniaC) translated this into Chinese on Lofter! :'DDDD  
> Link [HERE](http://etoiles282.lofter.com/post/1fe13303_1c601d7a6)!

The orphan doesn’t remember much of his parents. Their smiles, perhaps, no matter how laced with pain they are, and maybe their warmth. Their faces fade with time though, their voices even more so, until there’s only one clear memory left: “Never show your ears and your tail.”

He had always worn cloaks the few times they walked outside together; he’d shyly hang onto his mother’s hand or hide behind his father’s legs as they did whatever business they needed. If someone got too close, if someone made to reach out and touch him, the offender would surely receive a stern scolding or even a strike. Most would call them far too overprotective, but the orphan knew better. With them, he was safe. They protected him from people who mean him harm by keeping him close. They were busy, but someone was always there to look over him and take care of him. They taught him to care for himself, how to count, even learn to read a few words and write his name, his father’s name, and his mother’s name. They were too poor for a family name, but that was alright.

He doesn’t even remember his birth name anymore. Just “boy”, “child”, “kid”. He makes his kin with the memorial mob, who keep morsels out for him in exchange for a few sen. He makes his own tent to the side and minds himself, clinging to the last memories of his long-dead family with a scarf and an orange haori five sizes too big for him. It was the nicest haori his father ever had, he remembers still, even if no one ever looks that good in orange.

Someone saw his ears, once. He was sure that was why he was almost kidnapped during that moonless night. He fought and scrapped, bit savagely into flesh and tore it out. He was called a beast, a monster, a demon, but he didn’t particularly care. His family was taken away from him; he won't let people do the same with his life!

They didn’t succeed. He killed them first, and moved elsewhere at first light.

Those ears of his and his tail would certainly cause more trouble than what they were worth, and he hated them now. Sure, his parents liked to rub them as a form of praise, and being petted felt good, but they’re not here, not anymore, and anyone else would only hurt him because of those extra extremities, so honestly, what came next was only natural.

He came into the river, nothing more than a creek swollen by melted snow in the early spring months, with the sharpest knife he could find and a polished piece of metal that served as an impromptu mirror, as well as various bandages, a premade poultice of herbs, and a bottle of alcohol.

He left wet and wobbling like a drunkard, somewhat delirious from the pain and feeling like he’s lost more than just half his hearing.

* * *

Shinobi have a way of knowing things people would rather leave unknown and forgotten, but Wolf can’t help but feel grateful that at least his foster father never explicitly brings it up. The extra exercises in balance definitely help, until the losses lose its sting and he can feel as human as them. He can effortlessly slink across the thinnest walkways now, and he learned to listen with two ears just as well as any demon with four, and they honed his sense of smell and sight until he has no equal, not even amongst his teachers.

In this way, Wolf can almost pretend that being something other than human was a good thing. No human can be like he, no matter how strict his lessons are and how harsh Lady Butterfly and Owl are. There was no need to teach him the shinobi night eyes; his eyes already capture more light than them, as if they’re meant to gleam animalistically under the moonlight. His sense of smell picks up the slack for the work that his other ears should have born, and he’s able to smell a person’s presence in the room faster than any other medium of perception, and very rarely is he ever wrong. He’s lean, endurant, and strongly loyal, vicious when need be and submissive otherwise.

A starving wolf indeed.

He’s in his mid-twenties when he receives his first master, and he bows his head in reverence towards the sliding doors, or rather whoever is behind it. Useless muscles attempt to fold back ears that don’t exist and tuck in a tail that he now can’t imagine having. The instincts of deference are wasted upon Wolf.

He smells two bodies. One is a bit sweeter than the other, smelling like fresh youth and wide-eyed wonder and freshly-bloomed sakura, while the other is far older with just a tinge of saké and old books. The Hirata lord and the child he has adopted, the last in the line of the Divine Dragon’s inheritors.

He keeps his head bowed down until at the command to raise it, and… well.

“S-sir.” Wolf stammers in addressing the elder lord, his eyes unable to stay away from the small pale-pink tail that pokes out of the child’s top. He’s young, very young, but he stares back with intelligent eyes. There’s not a kinship, not quite yet, but the shinobi and his future master form a silent understanding of each other.

“Surprised, shinobi?” The lord chuckles and pats the child’s head, and it breaks their shared gaze away as Wolf looks back to the lord and the child shyly turns his head away. “Those who inherit the Divine Dragon’s blood are in themselves dragons too, and so they share a few characteristics. Or at least, that’s the best explanation we have. He might even grow horns, I believe!”

So, a dragon’s tail and horns. It’s similar to his old ears and tail, and yet so different at the same time. “I see.”

Shinobi ought not to interact much with their lord, or at least most wouldn’t. Lady Butterfly kept a curt business-like relationship with her master, and Lord Isshin and his father worked closely together, but neither had really mentioned how to interact with a mere child. So, he kept to himself in the shadows, keeping quiet heed of the nearby grounds and the estate itself. It benefited well from the nearby river that formed as its natural moat, and the soldiers stationed here are experienced and well-disciplined, so the only true dangers to his new master, Lord Kuro, are the dangers only Wolf would intimately know.

He literally sniffs out his first assassin. He goads him out elsewhere, and discreetly cuts him down. There are no papers on him, smartly enough, so he not-so-discreetly asks a servant to dispose of the body. He keeps a careful watch over it, and it disappears a few days later.

It’s not as if Wolf is Lord Kuro’s only retainer too. He’s surrounded by an entourage of talented samurai, trained under the esteemed Ashina arts who will defend him with their lives; Wolf just so happens to be the only shinobi. While he knows that in other countries he would be looked down at, the Ashina code of “victory at any cost” casts people such as him in a far more favorable light, as they are seen as instrumental to Ashina’s reign and victory. Still, he’s not blind to how they look unfavorably at him. He is a newcomer, an outsider. And so, Wolf keeps out of their way, hidden and unseen. He doesn’t want to start trouble with men and women that ultimately share the same goal as him.

It seems, then, that only Lord Kuro actively attempts to invite his presence. Perhaps the only thing holding them back from meeting outside of business-like circumstances is that his caretakers, so-called “uncle” and “auntie” and the like (despite only being tangentially related) interpreted his requests as eager demands for someone new to play with. He’s heard them scold him, and say that he shouldn’t disturb his loyal shinobi in his work.

Usually, Wolf would agree. It’s just that the Hirata rarely had any enemies outside Ashina’s own, who would rather focus on the Ashina castle itself instead. Active enemies to Lord Kuro himself are never after his secretive blood, instead searching for any sort of leverage to use against the Hirata and Ashina lords, and so their lack of true killing intent (because even the dishonorable have a conscience to not put children under bodily harm) makes things easier for Wolf.

Their first casual meeting surprises Wolf, all things considered. Lord Kuro doesn’t quite sneak up to Wolf, he just… wasn’t really paying attention to his master as much as he’s paying attention to what might harm him. It was a warm and lazy afternoon anyways, although that didn’t mean that he’s allowed to take off anything more than his now-characteristic orange haori.

“Your name is ‘Wolf’, right?”

Wolf’s only display of surprise is shown with a quick blink, and he looks down next to him, where Lord Kuro looks up inquisitively with large, brown eyes.

"Yes, my lord," he carefully responds, and makes to kneel in front of him until his master held out his hand.

Wolf hesitates, just for a little while. He completes the motion, on one knee but with his head angled towards the other, at the very least. Still with his current position, Lord Kuro is small enough that they meet eye-to-eye, and Wolf is absolutely sure that there’s something quite disrespectful with the physical positioning that implied equality with someone that should be above him. He quickly rectifies that by bowing his head.

He hears a sigh that almost seems disappointed. “We are both the same,” Lord Kuro starts, and Wolf knows that he’s not talking about their station, but about their otherness as he continues. “Why bow to me?”

“A dragon is a creature of magnificent make; all else pales in comparison,” he answers. It’s a simple enough explanation without needing to go into details.

He receives a huff in return.

“May I touch your head?”

“You may do as you wish.”

The fingers, small and childish still with youthful chubbiness, run across his scalp, and Wolf is grateful that he washed it the day before. They fall upon the thick scars on his head, now hidden by his hair. The cut is cleaner than the first time he cut them off, thanks to Lady Butterfly’s handiwork.

“What are you?” Lord Kuro asks with a small voice, and it oddly reminds Wolf of how one might approach a wounded animal to prevent it from spooking. Maybe he should feel patronized, but that twisted feeling never rises to his chest.

“A… wolf.”

His master spares a giggle, quiet as it is, and he turns to rubbing the space in between where his animalistic ears would be. It’s… pleasing. Warm. Phantom muscles strain to do things he hasn’t done since he cut off his ears and tail.

“Is it alright if I do this to you?”

“I do not mind.” Wolf finds that he is speaking the truth.

They part before any of Lord Kuro’s other retainers could see them, but even then, he feels closer with his master.

A shinobi should serve his master out of duty. Nothing more, nothing less. Wolf is afraid that something else fuels his unwavering loyalty.

Since then, Wolf becomes somewhat of a more conspicuous shadow of Lord Kuro. His retainers begin noticing that the two seem to share an unspoken bond, something that the others cannot hope to comprehend. Maybe it has something to do with how the shinobi’s eyes gleam wolfishly in the dark; maybe it has something to do with the mystical aura around the child.

Nevertheless, one is rarely without the presence the other, although the shinobi is always hard to find, which would be worrisome otherwise.

Which is why, when Owl commands him to accompany a colleague of his elsewhere, he’s wary to party from his master. Still, something ingrained in his bones, whether it be his upbringing or his instinct, compelled him to follow orders obediently and immediately, without protest or second thought. He must do as his foster father bade, and yet…

“We’ve just returned from the pilgrimage. I’ll be fine, and my other retainers will be with me,” Lord Kuro assured, and he’s not wrong. The younger men are out to fight some battle that the Ashina needed reinforcements in, and so the older more veteran-like samurai are left to guard him. When no one is looking, he pats Wolf on his head, between his phantom ears. The skin between his brows feels a bit less tense, and Wolf exhales softly.

Alright. If his master is fine with it.

He leaves Hirata Estate, just for a little while, following after a shinobi named Snake, and they had to notice how Wolf keeps looking back at the home for his master (and admittedly, what’s starting to feel like home to him) but they don’t say a thing about it. They’re quiet, keeping to themself, and so their mission to find any nearby ministry shinobi is a silent affair, broken only by grunts and curt reports.

Wolf cannot bear the sinister churning in his stomach any longer, and Snake lets him sneak away into the night.

* * *

And then he wakes up, his life but a haze, a fog he cannot penetrate, a scent trail he cannot follow. He silently gets up, the dankness of remaining well water sinking into his skin from his clothing, picking up the slip of paper from the mud. His rear feels heavier, and so does his head. The dripping water seems louder, and something about his steps are different.

The weight behind him moves with his body. The weight on his head twitches without a secondary thought. It’s like he’s had them for his whole life, and yet for some reason they seemed fresh and new, somehow.

He thinks nothing of them, for now. He has a master. He must get to him. He remembers his face and his voice, remembers touches on his head and a kindness unlike any other, and that is enough for his unwavering loyalty.

When he next arrives, exhausted but unscathed, something twinkles in his young master’s eyes as he steps closer. There’s small nubs on his head, and his tail is a pale pink, still little but a bit thick. He is a growing child, after all.

His ears are folded back, his tail between his legs, an act of deference that for some reason makes his body sing out of joy. It’s submission, yes, but he trusts his master to not misuse his loyalty.

“You did well to come here,” Lord Kuro says, and Wolf remembers very little. There’s no real memories to associate with his master and he laments this, but as his hand rubs in between his wolf ears he finds that he does not mind. They can make new memories still. He can free his master, and they can escape elsewhere. “Strange, how these are healed too…”

Wolf stays silent, but he knows the childlike question his master wishes to ask, but he isn’t presumptuous enough to voice anything yet.

“May I touch your ears?”

“You may do as you wish.”

And immediately small fingers are set upon them, rubbing them as his master’s face brightens. “They’re soft,” he breathes out with wonder before detaching himself.

He’s worried, Wolf knows as he sets out with Kusabimaru in hand, but there’s nothing to fear. Something new has come, and for once he welcomes this extra bit of strangeness in his life as he cuts down Ashina soldiers ahead of him. He carries Kuro, of course, because it’s improper for a servant to call for a master like a man would for his dog, and he doesn’t make a single sound. He’s no trouble at all, really.

They’re in the field. Lord Genichiro awaits them, sword in hand, and he raises his brows in surprise at Wolf’s new body parts. He’s a seasoned warrior, however, and doesn’t let the extremities distract him.

He’s skilled. Too skilled. Wolf falls, and the pain of failure rips through his soul, choking him as the blood runs out, and yet the sensation of losing a part of his body is startlingly familiar.

Something as trivial as death cannot stop him, however.

He learns how to use his new prosthetic. He learns to hone his hearing. He learns how to use his tail. He’d say it’s a simple matter, really, but Hanbei the Undying seems to know how to fight against kin like him because he teaches Wolf that no one is above pulling at his tail to win a fight. It’s painful, and he snarls at the well-meaning man the first time it happens. Even experienced shinobi can learn something new, even if he rues the lesson.

It’s a well-served lesson, however.

It’s not hard to follow his master. His scent seems to be everywhere, and where the trail fades the nightjar smoke signals pick back up.

Lord Genichiro is there again, and this time Wolf lets his hackles rise, lets the extremities of his body show his anger and possessive loyalty for his master. How dare he suggest that Wolf serve another master! He needs only Lord Kuro, and he makes sure that the Ashina heir feels the bite of his blade and the bark of his terse words as he cuts him down again. And again. And again.

And even as he rises from the dead, he tenses, ready to fight again despite the aches in his body, the deaths he’s lived over and over again.

“How many times have you died for me?” Lord Kuro asks as he pets his head (because that’s what they really are, and Wolf would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy them), and of course his most loyal shinobi doesn’t give a direct answer. It doesn’t matter. He’d die a thousand deaths for his master to live his one life.

It’s harrowing then, when he suggests this quest to sever immortality. It settles uncomfortably in his bones as he sets out to retrieve the scented stone and white lotus that smells too strong and fragrant to his sensitive nostrils, and of course that crimson-colored mortal blade.

The Divine Child smells a bit like his master, now that he thinks about it. Not quite so, not quite enough, but it’s interesting and he brings that up with Lord Kuro the next they they speak, along with the offering of rice for him.

His gift delights his master, and he cannot help his tail from wagging side to side. The sight amuses Emma and Kuro and although his cheeks warm from the lack of control over his instincts, his heart is warmer still.

The treat Lord Kuro makes from the rice was sweet-scented and sweeter still on his tongue. The red bean sticks along with the rice and he uses his tongue to wipe away what clings to his oddly sharp teeth. It’s a treat, he realizes, maybe even a reward, and he muses in his brain that he really is nothing more than his Lord Kuro’s dog. It’s a sentiment that, peculiarly enough, settles quite well with him.

“How do you use your tail?” The Divine Heir asks Wolf one day, and he creases his brows in concentration.

“I use it to balance, mostly.”

“I can use mine to do this. Look, Wolf!” He curls his pink tail around a chopstick, and he looks quite proud of himself that he can do such a simple thing with his extra appendage. “I wonder if I can hang from a tree with my tail alone, if I grow older. I heard about monkeys that can hang by their tails and climb across forests with them, but I’ve never seen them.” He’s a child once more, unburdened by the momentous task he’s set for himself, and by all means, Wolf should be happy.

He is.

He just can’t forget what he’s heard. He can’t forget how pensive he looks sometimes. He can’t forget how he looks like he’s hiding secrets. Wolf can scent half-truths and lies, too.

Emma is not like them, fully human, but she knows too.

They devise a different way. One where his master is protected, truly, because anything else… anything else, and his bones howl in protest and grief before his mind can think further on it.

He supposed he has something of a pack, now. That’s something the true wolves have; he’s seen them running across the countryside together, on the days when he’s by himself and leaps and jumps not like the kind he should be. He has the sculptor and Hanbei and the merchant, Kuro and Emma and even Lord Isshin, he supposes, and he fits in oddly but well enough. The thought of his pack warms him through the cold nights he spends on his lonesome, rubbing hands together and wrapping both his old scarf and tail around himself to keep the warmth said thought gives.

A lone wolf. A starving wolf, except now his belly is always full with sweets and rice, and he has a pack he belongs to that he may call his own.

He’s happy with this strange allotment in life he’s given. Flying through the air with his grapple, the cold wind nipping at his ears and tail, and howling when he’s alone, he truly is very happy. Happier than he’s ever been, all throughout his short three decades of life. The deaths pale in comparison, and so does the filth and the strife, because he has a master to call his home and a pack he can protect, a quiet place to pray and this beautifully inhuman side of himself that he will not deny any longer.

Wolf is a wolf and yet neither moves like beast nor man, an angel on the battlefield. Few are alive to witness this, and so no one whispers, but if he strains his ears hard enough, it’s as if the true wolves speak what human tongues can’t despite the fact that he can’t understand them like a human would with another human. It doesn’t trouble him. They make a wide berth around him and leave him and his pack alone.

He finds the purification ritual. The everblossom flower in his memories (why did he abandon his master, why?).

He cuts down the greatest of enemies in his path, gods and god-like humans alike, and he snarls and growls when appropriate but keeps himself composed for a higher being, a child that deserves death as much as a faithful monk deserves the eight hells.

And so, as his violent yet blissful life ends, as he lays his master, the young child, Lord Kuro onto the field of grass, the stench of clashing steel and blood and ozone fresh in the air, Wolf spends a moment to think for himself.

He’s at peace. This is his duty, and he truly is happy to complete it. His tail wags even as his smile is forlorn.

“Thank you, Lord Kuro, for giving me back my ears and tail,” he murmurs, unsure if he hears, but that’s alright. The wind and the wolves will carry on the message for him.

The crimson blade moves, beautifully as all the other times he’s drawn it.

* * *

A man who has killed so many, even for a noble purpose, can never be reborn as a man once more.

A demon is less than human, less than animal, and so is expected to cause malice and kill, but perhaps Buddha himself can smile upon the accursed.

The dog does not remember, and is confused as to why he’s named a wolf by his master, confused as to why his master gives sweets to a memorial of stone and steel, but his pets are the best and his voice his kind, and so his tail never stops wagging for him.

**Author's Note:**

> fromsoft had no right to make wolf this cute but here we are


End file.
